He twisted her back toward him, holding her imprisoned. While keeping her skull firmly placed with one hand, he hauled the other hand back and slapped it against her face.
The crack reverberated through the room.
A gasp of pain ripped from her lips. For an instant, the room went dark. When she blinked he was still there, his body dominating her vision. Blood filled her mouth and slid down her chin.
“You have something to say?” His voice held the oddest degree of ragged excitement.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. “No.”
“Fine, then.” He hauled back his hand again, drawing his fingers into a fist.
Yvonne closed her eyes. She’d endured enough pain in her life to know she would endure this. She would. For Esme. For all the women who had thought they’d found love and found hell instead, she would endure.
“M
adam, you are so young, so beautiful. Surely a coral silk?”
Mary stroked the sapphire skirt billowing around her and smiled. It was sheer heaven against the skin. “Thank you, but no.”
“Perhaps then a flowered—”
Mary lifted her eyes to the modiste. “No.”
The woman’s hands fluttered about her as she tutted. Ringlets bounced against her gentle face in her clear distress. No doubt it seemed odd, a young woman desiring to dress in dark colors. But Mary wasn’t a debutante. She would never be that girl again and she had no intention of going back.
“Madame Solange,” Edward said from the red velvet chaise longue across the room. “She knows her mind.”
“But, Your Grace, it is highly irregular,” Madame Solange protested.
“She is highly irregular in the best sense and shouldn’t be dressed like all the silly young things of the season.”
Mary’s smile widened. Her sentiments exactly. “Now, a trim?”
Madame Solange gave a shrug and hurried over to the table decked with fringe, lace, and beading.
“You have exquisite taste, Mary,” Edward said.
“So did my mother.” She paused. It was so difficult talking about her beautiful mama. But at the same time, she longed to remember her at her best.
“Tell me about her,” Edward suggested.
Mary gave a careful glance at Madame Solange bustling over the trimming. Perhaps they shouldn’t speak of such things here. But . . .
“She was very beautiful. My mother always picked the most beautiful gowns.” Mary turned, catching an image of herself in the full-length mirror. She caught her breath.
At that moment, but for her hair she might have been her mother, picking a host of gowns for the season. And it wasn’t a horrifying image. Not like in Yvonne’s long hall.
Under Edward’s care she’d already begun to fill out, to have curves to her, and to look like her mother, who had held London captivated despite her licentious past.
“You loved her very much?” Edward prompted.
“Oh, yes. Very much. She wasn’t just beautiful in person. Her heart was more stunning than any face could be.” Her own heart ached at the memories of her mother dancing with her in the parlor, declaring her to be the most wonderful of all little girls.
“You’re very lucky.” A hint of sadness filled Edward’s voice.
Mary turned in the mirror, admiring the swish of the skirts. “I’m not sure I can agree.”
“At least your mother clearly loved you,” he whispered, the words barely audible.
That stopped her. She lifted her hands to her collar, smoothing it. Then, not wanting the modiste to overhear, she crossed to him. “And yours didn’t?”
He shifted on the chaise longue. “No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
She blinked.
Madame Solange bustled over. “I do not think I have a proper trim here. I will return in a moment.”
Mary nodded.
As the woman swept from the room, Mary took another step toward Edward. “Has no one ever loved you?”
His strong face paled. “That is a strange question.”
“It is a bold question, certainly. But between us, don’t you think we can speak of such things?”
His hands tightened on the red velvet. “Yes, I suppose we can.”
She longed to take another step forward, until her skirts brushed his legs, but she couldn’t. Not just yet. But how lovely it would be to throw herself down beside him and hold him in her arms and comfort him as likely no one had ever done. “So, then, will you answer?”
He met her eyes, unflinching. “I don’t think anyone has ever loved me. Not the way you speak of it.”
She pressed her lips together, suddenly seeing Edward in a new light. He seemed so strong, as if nothing could truly hurt him. But now she saw that wasn’t true. He was hurting now. Perhaps he had hurt all his life.
“Don’t pity me,” he said tightly.
“I don’t pity you, but now I see you’re right. Despite everything that has happened to me, I am lucky to have been loved. Even if my mother is gone now, I was the most important person in the world to her.”
“I’m glad.” A muscle tightened along his jaw. “Every child should have that.”
She knelt down before him and dared to place her hand on his knee. She gazed up at his face, wishing she could erase all the pain of that little boy. What kind of man would Edward have been if his parents had loved him? “Yes, Edward, every child should have that.”
The door swung open and Madame Solange swept in carrying a large bolt of lace. “Now, I think you shall like this very much.”
Showing no shock to see Mary positioned at Edward’s feet, Madame simply began unwinding the bolt as if all were perfectly normal.
Perhaps it was. Edward had told her Madame Solange was incredibly discreet and her shop was the only place in London he could take her for ready-made clothes without the gossips spreading news of the sudden presence of a young woman with shorn hair all over the city.
Mary pressed her hand against Edward’s leg, trying to convey how much his confession meant to her and how she wished it had all been different for them both.
She stood slowly and held out her hands for the lace.
Madame Solange draped the delicate fabric over her fingers.
It was dark blue and slightly beaded. Mary let out a soft breath of appreciation at the beauty of it. “This will be perfect.”
“As you will be, my dear,” the older woman said.
“Madame Solange is correct.” Edward leaned forward, his dark eyes heating. “You are beautiful.”
Mary fought a blush. Suddenly, it struck her how very much she was enjoying this. Out there, her father would soon be searching. Mrs. Palmer surely already was, and god knew what other dangers she might face. But here, in this moment, in a beautiful gown and with Edward approving her, she saw the world was a very pleasant place indeed.
Her Grace the Duchess of Duncliffe had begun to think she had made a grave error. She stared at the nascent purpling on her upper arm, wondering whether powder would be sufficient to mask it. The gown she’d commissioned for Lady Castor’s ball had fashionable cap sleeves edged with Venetian lace. In the future, she’d have to be more careful about the styles she chose.
She didn’t allow herself to examine the mark for long. His Grace sat in the corner, his body surprisingly languid for one who had just unleashed such violence. Tears still clung to her lashes, threatening to break free. She held them back. He hated tears.
Her husband hated many things.
But how was she to have known he hated flowers in a woman’s hair? It was the height of fashion, after all, and she knew he had said to wear the diamond stars, but she’d thought just one white rose tucked into her tresses amid the diamonds . . .
“Call your maid.”
His voice, rich and humming with authority, prickled her skin with revulsion. She’d learned to block that voice out when it called another woman’s name as he rutted over her in bed.
Esme.
His last wife, who’d fallen down the stairs.
Clare swallowed.
Fallen.
How many knew the true Duke of Duncliffe? None. That was how many. For if they did, they, like she, would know that his wife had not fallen. She must have been shoved in one of His Grace’s violent rages.
“Call her,” he repeated, just the hint of warning in that deep voice.
She reached across her dressing table and pulled on the soft gold brocade bellpull. Any moment now, he would get up to leave and she’d have a few moments’ peace. Any moment now.
Only he did not.
He sat in silence, staring at her with piercing eyes, his strong hands resting on the arms of the ivory silk chair. After several painful moments, he said, “I see you are curious.”
She started, her fingers trembling as she absently reached for her silver-backed brush. “Curious, Your Grace?”
“As to why I have not left you to your own devices. But you see, my dear, it becomes clear to me that you cannot be trusted to dress yourself without my careful eye. You will thank me for my care and tutelage eventually.”
“I—I’m already grateful.”
He smiled, a kind, indulgent smile. “Is that true?”
She gagged on the words in her throat but managed to force them out. “Of course. You know so much more than I. I would be lost without your guidance.”
His entire demeanor relaxed and he eased back against his chair, as benevolent as any husband could be. “Then perhaps we should discuss your plans for tomorrow.” He frowned slightly, concern worrying his brow. “I do not wish you to involve yourself with your former friends. They are a poor influence and hardly befitting a woman of your stature.”
Those tears that she’d kept under such control burned anew at her lids. She glanced away from him, staring at her own blanched face in the mirror. Her cheeks were sunken now from the little food she’d been eating. He’d told her that she had too much flesh, beautiful though she was, and that he would monitor her consumption of food and wine. Just to the right of her hand was the little diary he’d given her to write everything she put into her mouth—everything except for his member, that was.
Her life was disintegrating at a pace she couldn’t quite fathom. None of it seemed possible. “But I’ve promised Lady Hertford I would attend her charity foundation for some time.”
Her husband rose to his full height, a good several inches over six feet, and crossed the room in slow, even strides until he stood directly behind her. Lifting his hands, he placed them on her bare shoulders. His hands were smooth yet warm and firm, the hands of one who fenced, boxed, and beat his wife. They stroked her neck with the softest caress. “I will have my man give her a sizable donation and you will be done with it. Now, hand me your brush. I do so love your hair.”
Clare lifted her brush. The heavy object stopped her hand from shaking. He took it with surprising gentleness and tenderly stroked it through her locks.
“You are so beautiful and in time you shall make me so proud,” he said gently, as if in apology for his earlier unkindness. As if he’d merely snapped at her instead of laying his fists upon her yet again. “You’d like that? For me to be proud.”
She nodded quickly. “Nothing could give me more pleasure.”
He smiled at her in the mirror, then leaned down and pressed the softest of kisses to the top of her head. “Thank you.”
Desperately, she twisted her hands together in her lap. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, suppressing a sob and praying she could keep the tears from spilling over her lids. Praying he would not see her revulsion for every touch he bestowed on her.
Who could she tell? Her parents? They had done everything within their power to ensure her marriage to the duke took place.
There was no one.
She was alone. Utterly alone. She drew in a calming breath and decided to be very foolish, for if not now—if she did not try—her life would be a misery. “Do you not think it at all strange how little control I have over my life now? I—I am a wife and a duchess,” she rushed. “A woman grown.”
He continued to stroke the brush through her hair, but his piercing eyes met hers in the mirror. Smiling his soft, seductive smile, the smile that had won her heart, he asked, “How do you mean?”
“W-well. I have no choice over my gowns, my jewels, my friends, servants, what I eat . . .” She tried to offer him a conciliatory smile, but her lips trembled. “Anything, in truth.”
“Why should you wish to? At this time, my judgment is far superior to yours. Perhaps in time, after you have learned to have more discerning tastes.”
“But I long for my friends.”
He continued to run that brush through her hair, reasoning with her as if she were a troublesome child. “The only person you should long for is your husband.”
For the love of heaven, could she not say anything without him insulting her intelligence? “You are my husband and lord, and I wish to please you, but I also wish to have some semblance of—”
His arm raised in a flash of white linen. Her silver brush flickered in the candlelight; then its hard surface cracked against her cheek. Pain burst across her face and she fell out of the chair, tumbling to the floor. Her hands slammed into the soft surface, but her elbow caught on her dressing table and a streak of pain tore up her arm.
Her hoop skirt billowed up and she frantically tried to press it down so she might scramble away. But his fingers wove into her hair and began to yank upward. A thousand stinging needles pierced her scalp as he yanked her to her feet. He wrenched her head back as he stared down into her face, his lips pulled back in a ferocious scowl. “You will learn. You are my wife and you will please me. I tolerate nothing less.”
“Forgive me,” she sobbed, hating herself. Never in her life had she felt such black loathing for her own weak soul. She closed her eyes, knowing what was to come, understanding she had married an evil man. And so she prayed that soon she would forget.
Edward could not bring himself to speak as he and Mary rode back to his home in his ducal coach. He couldn’t allow himself to open his mouth lest he speak the thoughts racing around in his head. He was using Mary. He was putting her in an untenable position. He’d taken her into his protection. But in this society that was no simple thing. Simply by being in his house, she was now his whore.